by Tamara Leigh
Braose looked to the altar, and the silence grew until, finally, he conceded, “Can you turn me to Stephen?”
Garr studied his profile—a pretty one that, hopefully, would become masculine with maturity. He frowned. What was it about Braose that continued to niggle at him? Strangely, the answer felt within reach, as if it might be unveiled if only Garr would take hold of it.
Braose met Garr’s gaze. “Can you, my lord?”
If only he could read the young man’s eyes, but they remained largely closed to him. Still, one thing was clear. Garr shook his head. “Henry is strong in you. But others have turned. Not that it is expected. If it happens, so be it and the father is either well-pleased or greatly displeased. Regardless, he has a son worthy to administer and defend his lands.”
“You say you do not try to turn them?”
“What is lesson ten, Braose?”
“Let no man make your way for you.”
“Aye. Those who leave Wulfen would not be worthy of knighthood if they allowed another to choose their allegiance.”
After a long moment, Braose said, “You have not told me what you pray for, my lord.”
Garr returned his regard to the altar where he came when troubled. Here he sought answers as his mother had first taught him to do. “I pray for England, young Jame. I pray for all that is best for our land. I pray it once more prosper and war be buried with the dead.”
“And you think Stephen and Eustace are best for England?”
How bold he was! But rather than rebuke him, Garr said, “Though loyalty holds me to Stephen, naught could hold me to his son.”
Surprise rose in Braose’s eyes. “For what have you to be loyal, my lord?”
Aye, for what, especially now that there was Eustace? It was the same Garr had asked himself time over, and always the answer was, “Stephen saved my father’s life when they were young men. My father vowed ever to be his man.”
“Then ’tis for him, a ghost, that you remain loyal to Stephen.” Braose shook his head. “What of lesson ten: let no man make your way for you?”
Garr’s anger pricked. “’Tis not only loyalty that holds me to Stephen. He is a good man—at times weak, but good.”
“Not good enough for England.”
His anger surged. “When he took the crown there was none better, only that blustering Maude. In her hands, England’s present suffering would be ten-fold.”
“Even so, now there is someone better, England’s rightful heir. But still you will let another make your choice.”
Garr’s anger snapped, violating the first lesson his father had taught him. “Enough!” He surged to his feet. “I shall not allow a whelp to speak politics to me!”
Braose rose. Though uncertainty flickered in his eyes and caused him to clasp his hands before him, still he dared. “You are right, my lord. Far better to listen to a ghost than a lowly squire.”
Garr clenched his hands as he warred with emotions that a man should never allow to consume him. But there was so much fuel for them: the meeting with Lavonne, the knowledge that what the arrogant man spoke was true, the realization that loyalty had no place in determining England’s future, that this land would soon boast another king.
Garr swung away. “I do not know what makes me allow you what I allow no other.”
“Mayhap ’tis because I speak true, my lord. Henry will be king.”
Garr swept his gaze to the doors at the rear of the chapel. “Aye,” he begrudged. “It seems that all you ask for when you go to prayer is not denied after all.” He looked over his shoulder.
The young man frowned, then blushed. “So it seems, my lord.”
“Good eve.”
As Annyn watched Wulfrith pass through the door, she laid a hand between her bound breasts and wondered at the ache in her heart. She hurt for Wulfrith’s struggle.
He is responsible for Jonas’s death!
She shook her head. “I am getting too near him to see clearly,” she whispered. And suddenly she knew. It must be done this night or it would not be done at all.
CHAPTER NINE
Squire Samuel slept. Had he also been instructed to sleep lightly?
Feeling the weight of the blood coursing through her, Annyn slipped behind the curtain and into near darkness. As expected, the two hours since midnight had doused the torchlight within. Still, the narrow slits on either side of Wulfrith’s bed allowed the moon’s clouded light to penetrate the oilcloths, but only enough to differentiate between shades of black.
Annyn gripped the misericorde tighter and told herself she could do what needed to be done. Stay left to avoid Squire Warren who sleeps right, she recited, a dozen steps to the foot of the bed, four more to the head, a single sweep of the blade.
Standing just inside the solar, she strained for sounds of sleep from Wulfrith and his squire.
There was one breath, deep and softly snoring, but the other could not be heard. Likely, the former was too loud. That must be it.
She peered through the dark and picked out Wulfrith’s figure in the center of the bed.
Be done with it! For Jonas, for Rowan, for you!
As she put a foot forward, chill bumps coursed her arms and legs.
No different from stalking a deer.
But there was no place to hide, no oaks to peer out from behind, and if she was seen, Wulfrith would not simply bound away. Indeed, it might be her blood that choked the mattress. And would she truly know peace if he died by her hand? Though in that moment she knew she would not, it had to be done.
And if ’twas not he who put the noose to Jonas? her conscience protested.
Even so, he is responsible! Why else would he lie about Jonas’s death?
As her inner voices warred, Annyn measured her footfalls across the solar, grateful the rushes were so fresh they did not snap and rustle. It also helped that she had left her boots abovestairs, her hose better serving to muffle her movements.
Mouth and throat as dry as parchment, she halted alongside the bed and looked upon Wulfrith’s dark figure. The pale of his silver hair showed where his head lay. And drew a clear path to his neck.
She had but to lean forward, make a sweep of it, and be gone. Far from here. Far from Lillia. Far from Henry’s plan to make of her mere chattel.
Though she longed to swallow hard, Annyn denied the lump in her throat lest it awaken Wulfrith. Hand quavering, she began to raise the misericorde above the man who did not fit a murderer...who had given her salve for her hand...who had not beat and humiliated her when she spilled wine on him...who had not berated her for tears shed over a fallen deer...who sought God even when no one was watching...who prayed for what was best for England...
He killed your brother!
Jonas...
Vengeance is not yours, Annyn. Vengeance belongs to God. You must defer to Him.
She struggled a moment longer, then stifled a whimper. She could not take another’s life.
Strangely, it felt as if a burden was lifted from her. Shoulders slumping, she silently beseeched, Lord, forgive me. Pray, forgive me.
Knowing she must leave Wulfen Castle this night, she lowered her hand that held the misericorde.
In the next instant, steel slammed around her wrist.
Clamping her teeth to keep from crying out, she strained back. Wulfrith tightened his grip, causing her fingers to spasm and release the misericorde. Then he dragged her forward.
Behind, Annyn heard Squire Warren’s startled voice, though what he spoke as he lurched up from the floor and what Wulfrith answered, she could not have said.
Desperate, she dipped her head and bit the hand that held her.
“Lord!” Wulfrith bellowed.
It was only a slight loosening, but enough to slip her small hand free. Annyn jumped back and felt the brush of Wulfrith’s fingers over her arm as he thrust up from the mattress. She spun about and made it across the solar only to meet with Squire Samuel’s entrance.
God must hav
e forgiven her for what she had not done, for He gave her wings. She darted left, evaded both squires, and pushed through the curtains.
The fray in the solar having awakened those in the hall, most had risen from their pallets to search out the cause. Fortunately, it was to Annyn’s advantage. As the weak torches threw too little light to identify her, and the young men were muddled by the unexpected awakening, she slipped unnoticed among them as Squires Warren and Samuel came through the curtain. But she could not stay here when she was to have spent the night abovestairs.
“Our lord has been set upon!” Squire Warren shouted. “The knave is among you!”
Annyn pushed on, praying the torches would not be lit prior to her reaching the stairs and she could make it to her pallet before those who kept chambers above rushed down to the hall.
She made it past the others and, at the stairs, glanced over her shoulder. There was still not enough light to put faces to any, but she knew it was Wulfrith who had come out of the solar. Though she allowed herself only the one glance before taking the stairs two at a time, she was struck by his stance. It lacked urgency, as if he had not come near death, as if he knew his assailant, as if he knew where to find him—rather, her.
Voices above, followed by the thump of feet, halted Annyn’s ascent. Willing her heart to stay in her chest, she swung around and descended the stairs in hopes of appearing to have made it down ahead of the others.
Staring out across the darkened hall, Garr ran a finger over the impressions in the back of his hand and, when the torches rose to flame, lowered his gaze. Teeth. Not a warrior’s weapon. Indeed, those trained to knighthood would first use a fist or draw another dagger. Unfortunately, that expectation had caught him unaware and allowed his assailant to escape.
Berating himself for the error, he narrowed his gaze on the marks. Small, even teeth, as of a young page, which did not surprise him, for the figure had lacked stature.
Amid the clamor of the hall, he turned his hand and opened his fingers to reveal the dagger meant to sever his life. And stopped breathing.
He swept his gaze to the pommel where crimson jewels were embedded to form a cross. It was a ceremonial dagger awarded only to those knighted at Wulfen—excepting one who should never have been given the honor. But he was dead.
So to whom did this misericorde belong? Of those present, only Garr’s brothers, Wulfen’s knights, and Lavonne possessed one. Though the latter was most likely responsible for the attack, it was certainly not he who had brandished the weapon. Of course, some of the young men here had fathers knighted by Garr’s father, Drogo, grandfathers knighted by Garr’s grandfather, and further back.
What irony if he had been felled by a Wulfen dagger! Not that there had been any possibility of that, for he had heard his assailant enter the solar. He had lain unmoving, feigning a soft snore to coax the young man near. If not for those vicious teeth, this moment he would have the miscreant at his feet. But there would be no escape for him.
Looking out across the hall, Garr wondered which of the young men’s heart beat with fear. Whose brow perspired? Hands trembled? Who had so strongly stood the side of Henry that he would murder for the man who would be king?
“You are well, Brother?” Abel asked as he and Everard gained Garr’s side, both wearing skewed tunics donned in haste.
Garr searched those in the hall. The one who captured and held his gaze was Lavonne where he stood near the stairs, a knight on either side. The baron’s clothes were rumpled as if he had slept in them, face red-nosed and squint-eyed. However, his only surprise at being awakened so early was surely that it was not for the reason expected—to look upon the death of the one who had trained him to knighthood. So which of these young men had he set to do the deed?
Garr tightened his robe and stepped to the edge of the dais. “Silence!”
All turned to him.
He contemplated each, many of whom had teeth so crooked they were easily eliminated along with those too tall and stout. He paused on Braose where the young man stood not far from Lavonne. As was known to be his preference when he settled on his pallet, he was fully clothed, unlike the other squires and pages who either hugged blankets about themselves or had hastily donned tunics.
Might it have been Braose? Garr held the young man’s gaze. Not only was he small of stature, but he was Henry’s side. Too, this eve he had squired for Lavonne. But behind those unreadable eyes, could he murder? Remembering the deer in the wood, the tears in Braose’s eyes when he looked upon the slain animal, Garr concluded it was not possible. Braose could hardly kill, let alone murder.
Garr considered the next squire, but dismissed the young man who was not only tall, but lacking a front tooth. Still, among the many were possibilities, and one belonged to the misericorde.
Garr raised the weapon and stepped forward. “To whom does this belong?”
There was interest, but no one claimed it. Not that Garr expected his assailant to reveal himself. Fortunately, there was a way he might draw the young man out, providing he had any honor about him.
Garr descended the dais and strode through the rift that opened before him as the young men stepped aside. He passed Braose, halted before his guest, and lifted the misericorde. “You recognize this, Lavonne?”
The man’s brow puckered. “Why do you ask?”
“You know this dagger?”
“Of course I do. ’Tis the same as you gave me the day of my knighting, the same given to all knighted at Wulfen.”
Garr held out his other hand. “I would see yours.”
The baron sputtered. “You think I carry it on my person?”
“No longer, for this night you gave it to another to put through me.”
As outrage darkened Lavonne’s face, the baron’s knights on either side set hands to their swords.
“I would not,” Everard spoke in a deep rumble. He, Abel, and Sir Merrick had slipped behind Lavonne and his men. Swords drawn, they stood ready.
“What is this?” Lavonne demanded. “You think me so fool as to try to kill you whilst I lie beneath your roof?”
“I do.”
Lavonne glanced left and right. “Upon my word, this night I did not seek your death.”
Though Garr detected no lie in the baron’s eyes, he doubted his judgment as he had done many times since Jonas—
He did not want to think there. Meeting Everard’s waiting gaze, he nodded.
Everard laid the edge of his sword to Lavonne’s throat. The man’s knights were helpless to aid him as Abel and Sir Merrick were too soon upon them.
Fear peeling away arrogance, the baron demanded, “What do you intend?”
Very soon they would know whether or not the assailant had honor. Garr slid the misericorde beneath the belt of his robe, folded his arms over his chest, and considered the man before him long enough to cause a sheen of perspiration to form on Lavonne’s upper lip. “What I intend is to return you to Henry on the morrow, drawn and quartered.”
Behind, a sharply drawn breath rose above the murmurs of pages and squires. Braose?
“You would not dare!” Lavonne roared.
Garr waited for the assailant to drag honor from fear, but when he did not, nodded. “I would. After we hang you.”
“Nay!” Braose cried in a voice pitched higher than Garr had ever heard it. “’Twas not he.”
Disgusted at having been so blind, angered that he should be so betrayed as he had vowed never to be again, Garr strode to the young man who stood with chin high and hands clenched at his sides. “It seems the baron shall not be alone in paying the wages of treachery.”
Braose swallowed, and when he spoke his voice was hardly familiar—husky, but lacking depth. “He has done naught to warrant your vengeance. ’Twas I and no other.”
“See now!” Lavonne yelped. “I demand recompense for the injustice done me!”
Garr could almost believe Braose was alone in this. Ignoring the baron, he pulled the misericorde from hi
s belt and thrust it before the young man’s face. “Is this not Lavonne’s?”
“Nay, it belonged to my brother.”
His brother... Something about the young man’s voice and the accusation in his eyes wrenched Garr far from Wulfen.
It could not be. He looked again to the misericorde, turned it, and found the initials that, newly knighted, he had scratched into the blade beneath the hilt: G.W.
It was. The filthy urchin who had so hated him with her eyes, who had marked him with her nails, and now her teeth, had become a woman.
Anger coursed through Garr, once more testing the first lesson his father had taught him. Before he could dam the emotion, it flooded him and he caught the front of his assailant’s tunic. Staring into her startled blue eyes, he slashed the dagger down through the material.
A cry parted bowed lips and showed straight, even teeth.
Garr stared at the bindings revealed between the edges of the rent tunic. And he was not the only one to see the truth of Jame Braose.
Amid shock that parted mouths and put tongues to voices, Garr returned to the face he had never truly seen. A pretty face. The face of a woman, and one whose chin did not fall, whose eyes were wide with an anger that challenged his own.
He dragged her near. Not until her face was inches from his, and no less defiant, did the full impact of her presence hit him. A woman within Wulfen’s walls where there had never been one. A woman! And one not unknown to him.
Were I a man, I would kill you. Were I a man...
Garr put his face nearer hers and dared her to hold his gaze. Though something flickered in her eyes—fear, he thought, though with women one could not be certain—she did not look away.
“A woman at Wulfen!” Lavonne jeered. “Tell, Lord Wulfrith, who is this foul creature who has made a fool of you?”
Still Garr waited for her to look away. “The lady’s name is Annyn Bretanne.”
Despite the unveiling, she did not even blink.
Lavonne choked, spluttered, and demanded, “What do you say?”
“This is Lady Annyn Bretanne of Aillil,” Garr repeated, the hand with which he held her aching to batter flesh and bone. Praying Lavonne would give him a reason to turn his anger from the woman to whom he could not put a fist, he looked to the baron.